


The Capture

by Anonymous



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempted Escape(s), BDSM, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/F, F/M, Father/Son Incest, Incest, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), Parent/Child Incest, Rough Oral Sex, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22899820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: On a seemingly normal night, Malcolm Bright is taken from his New York loft. The only clues leading to his whereabouts are a few muddy footprints, tire tracks, and a pair of handcuffs. With a frantic chase breaking out state wide, everyone is looking for the profiler.Will they find him in time? Or will he be broken beyond repair?𝙋𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩/𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙨. 𝙍𝙚𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙥!
Relationships: Eve Blanchard/Dani Powell, Gil Arroyo/Jessica Whitly, JT Tarmel/Tally Tarmel, Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 8
Kudos: 74
Collections: Anonymous





	The Capture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [XenoZaraZaron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XenoZaraZaron/gifts).



> Back with another fic! A series, this time. I wonder if I'll finish it.. *cringing at The Same* (I swear I'll update it eventually!!)
> 
> This one comes from a few wonderful requests on my Tumblr! Thank you so much for sending in some!! (You know who you are) Obvious trigger warnings in this tags, this is an incest fic. For a first chapter though, it's pretty tame. 
> 
> I've combined a few different requests in this one, so some of them will be showing up in future chapters :'D
> 
> Please tell me what you think of this! I'm going to keep editing and revising until I'm happy with it, but for now I think it's adequate. I'd love feedback :")
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr! I post to a bunch of different fandoms on there, but I accept requests and prompts for Prodigal Son and any other fandoms I have knowledge of! I promise I don't bite, so stop by sometime and say hi 💞
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/throwaway-sinfulwriter

Bright was in the precious space between sleep and wake. Sleepy enough that his eyes would no longer stay open, awake enough the nightmares hadn't started. All he could hear was the occasional chirp from Sunshine, and the shifting metal of his restraints as he moved his wrist to become comfortable. The day had been difficult, like all days. 

He had a long session with his therapist in the morning, and uncomfortable brunch with his family. A short, uninteresting drug deal case, and three tumblers of whiskey before he could convince himself into bed. 

The profiler thinks of his daily affirmation. He repeats it over and over, his lips forming the words as he sinks deeper into sleep..

Malcolm jerks awake unexpectedly. He hadn't been "asleep" for long, and was only just hitting REM when he's woken. In a way, he's grateful for it. At least he woke before the nightmares started. His grateful disposition quickly changes when he sees what woke him up. 

Doctor Martin Whitly stands at the end of his bed, watching him intently. Malcom doesn't think that he's real, just a figment of his imagination. He relaxes into the sheets, but that quickly changes when the doctor moves to the side of the bed. The bottom of the Claremont pants he's wearing are caked in mud, leaving imprints and dirt on his floor.

That's when he knows that this is _real_. Martin Whitly is in his loft, in his _bedroom_. Malcolm springs into action, fear rushing through his veins. He spits out his mouth guard, pressing on his restraints. Once his wrists are free, he attempts to get out of the bed. On the side Martin isn't standing on. 

The doctor predicts his movement, however. He snags Malcolm around his waist. His large hand, covered in a small cloth, slaps over Malcolm's nose and mouth. Malcolm's parakeet is going _wild_. Out of the corner of his eye he sees that Sunshine's cage is covered in a cloth as well. 

The profiler tries to scream, get out of his grip. But Martin is strong, stronger than him. When he inhales to scream again, a sweet burn of chloroform travels down his throat. He thrashes wildly, just like before. Broken mind overtaken with this exact situation when he was a child. Held against his father's chest and smothered in chloroform. 

He hopes the cloth covering his bird isn't contaminated. Even in grave danger, the thought of the parakeet being hurt alarms him more than being taken by his father. 

Huh. _Interesting_. 

His feet kick wildly, trying to catch Martin and knock him off balance. The man is steady in his grip, not letting Malcolm any leverage.

Memories batter at his skull, long forgotten. He fights harder, his vision beginning to blur and turn black. He doesn't have much time, he has to _get away_ , he has to-

He sees black. 

Martin drops Malcolm back on the bed, panting from the effort it took to hold him until he passed out. The boy was much more strong than he was when he was a child. But no matter.. Martin would _always_ be able to overpower him. 

The serial killer's cheeks are flushed a rouge color, exhilarated from the struggle. He scoops Malcolm up bridal style. Kissing his forehead tenderly, carrying him down the loft stairs. To the car that was waiting for them.

They both had a long drive ahead of them.

* * *

Malcolm groans aloud as he groggily opens his eyes. His eyelids are heavy, the effects of the drugs not completely worn off yet. He sees the tan interior of a car, and bright green trees passing by the window. He's in a car. Definitely no longer in the city. 

He tries to move, but cries out in pain as something tightens around him. Looking down, he feels the blood drain from his face. Soft but coarse rope encases his body. His hands are trapped behind him, feet curled in front of him. The ropes knot and twist all along his body, in a familiar shibari pattern he had often seen in BDSM clubs he visited.

"Good morning, m'boy." Martin chirps from the driver's seat. 

Malcolm turns his head, shivering as their eyes meet in the rear view mirror. " **Fuck**." He whispers, trying to move his hands.

"Now, now.. none of that." Martin chides, running his hands over the steering wheel. It's quiet in the car, and Malcolm can hear the leather brushing against his palms as he drives. "You won't be getting out of those ropes anytime soon. They'll only tighten the more you move."

His father clicks his tongue three times, and above the headrest of the driver seat Malcolm can see his curls shake. 

Malcolm is spread across the entirety of the backseat. Slightly inclined with his back touching one door, toes touching the other. He tries getting out of the rope once more, and sure enough, it tightens around his wrists.

He's still in his sleep clothes. A simple t-shirt and boxers. The skin on his thighs is already reddening from the tightening rope. It's going to leave marks.

There was no way he was going to get out of his restraints. Not until Martin wanted him to. He was at the complete mercy of a serial killer. Sure, the man was his father. He held some compassion for him.. Malcolm could use that to his advantage. 

But he was _petrified_. This man.. the holder of all of his trauma. The **source**. They were alone, miles from the city.. no one was here to save him besides himself. 

Tears well up in his eyes. No matter how much he doesn't want to cry, he's _scared_. One would think that after dealing with enough serial killers, the fear would fade. But it didn't. Especially with The Surgeon.

Malcolm sniffles, a few tears running down his cheeks. Teeth biting into his bottom lip. It's not enough to stifle the first few sobs, his shoulders shaking. The small movement enough to tighten the ropes around his body. 

He's pulled out of his misery when the car unexpectedly pulls over to the side of the road. He blinks in surprise, more tears falling. The engine is killed, and he looks in the front of the car. Now could be his chance. 

His eyes meet Martin's, and cold washes over him like a sheet of ice. Martin has turned in his seat, his elbow on the console in the middle. His head propped up on his hand, watching Malcolm with interest. A small smile turning the corners of his lips. 

Malcolm cries more, unable to stop. His nose runs, and he sniffles in vain. His eyes overflow with tears. Martin watches in fascination. He loves his boy _so much_. Malcolm was beautiful when he cried. His eyes were usually gorgeous, but glazed with tears they were **_stunning_**.

The former doctor sits there for a long while, until Malcolm's tears had dried up. No words had been exchanged up to that point. Martin reaches out, wiping a rouge tear from his son's face.

Malcolm violently flinches, throwing his head back and hitting it on the car door.

Martin clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "Now, now. Was that _really_ necessary, my boy?" He asks rhetorically, turning back to facing the wheel. 

"I'll put some ice on that when we arrive. Don't cause anymore trouble, Malcolm." He reaches out, re-adjusting the rear view mirror. His eyes meet Malcolm's tearful ones in the mirror. "I wouldn't want to have to give you _more_ chloroform."

Malcolm winces, curling in on himself. Trying to get comfortable in his restraints. There was no use in fighting. When it came to Martin, he wasn't strong enough. He never would be. 

Martin smiles to himself. Starting the engine back up and pulling back into the road. Everything was going to plan. Malcolm would go along with the plan soon enough… 

* * *

Back in the city, Malcolm's phone is blowing up with calls and texts from his mother. Sunshine's cage is still covered. Small rays of sunshine shine through the windows, light glinting off of the weapons displays decorating the loft. 

Jessica Whitly sighs down at her phone, finally calling a different number. "Aldopho. I need you to drive me to Malcolm's."

She continues texting her son on the drive there, legs bouncing nervously. Since she had woken that morning, something had felt.. _off_. The woman had checked on Ainsley, and as usual her daughter was punctual in her response time. _Malcolm_ , on the other hand... 

Exiting the car, she uses her key ring to unlock the door to the loft. About to walk up the stairs, she falter. There's a pair of muddy footsteps leading down the stairs up into the apartment. 

She's immediately on edge, carefully toeing around the footsteps. Something wasn't _right_. 

At the top of the stairs, something glints in the sunlight. Catching her eye. A small gasp tears from her throat. It's a pair of handcuffs. She recognizes them almost immediately. The time she had visited Martin, the same pair of handcuffs had been clipped to his wrists. 

Jessica drops her purse, running up into the loft. Shrieking.

" _ **Malcolm**_?!" She has difficulty breathing, panic rising in her throat. The damn parakeet is practically wailing in chirps. It's cage is covered. She doesn't take it off, hell bent on finding Malcolm.

"Malcolm, where are you?!" The mother searches the whole house. No sign of her son anywhere. She's shaking violently, standing in the middle of the living room. He's gone.

She takes out her phone, dialing the familiar number she had been ringing periodically since the night of her ex-husbands arrest. Her hands are shaking like mad.

"Gil?" She asks, voice wobbling. His concerned voice on the other hand. "Malcolm's been taken."


End file.
